


The Volunteer.

by Jackmerlin



Category: The Marlows - Antonia Forest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-25
Updated: 2016-08-25
Packaged: 2018-08-10 23:24:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7865536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jackmerlin/pseuds/Jackmerlin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Janice Scott becoming a 'Non Co-operative Type'.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Volunteer.

**Author's Note:**

> This is a prequel to my story ‘Changes’, set ten years earlier. However for those who prefer accuracy when they can get it, I’ve made a mistake. I’d foolishly written my first draft before going to canon to check my facts. In EOT Rowan tells Nicola this incident happened when Jan was in the Upper Fourth, and I’ve imagined it happening when she was in the Seconds. The only way I can twist it right is to suggest that Rowan was mistaken, perhaps because she was only told the story herself when Jan was in the Fourth, misheard an account of an old story and just assumed it had happened recently. If that doesn’t work, then I can only offer this as a ‘what might have happened in another universe’ story.  
> Also. I can’t find a name for a science teacher in canon, so I have invented one.

IIA’s table prefect, an unpopular Sixth-former inaptly named Faith, sent Val over to get the letters for their table. Val, solemnly responsible, crossed the dining hall at a steady pace, exaggeratedly standing out of the way of those more impulsive people who hurried through the tables with full jugs of milk in their hands. Clearly if it wasn’t for Val, there would be an accident involving all of their letters being washed away in a disastrous milk spill.  
Val’s earnest carefulness was at least not meant to be intentionally annoying, but Faith, abusing her power, handed out the post with deliberate slowness, studying each address as if she could barely make out the name, so that the members of IIA waited, hoped, were resigned, were disappointed, all in tortuous suspense.   
Janice watched the performance with her usual feelings of scorn and dislike. She wasn’t anticipating anything herself this close to end of term; her father’s dutiful fortnightly page having come the previous week. But today she was unexpectedly lucky; an envelope was passed her way, slightly lumpy, and her name written in Philip’s dreadful scrawl.  
Her brother Philip, often insufferable, thinking his extra year made him so much tougher or wiser than her, but also the only person in the world that she ever really wanted to talk to. Phil never wrote her letters as such - what could he possibly say in a letter, after all - but he did send short notes sometimes, maybe passing on a joke that was going round school or something he’d seen that he wanted to tell her, like the time he saw the avocets on the beach. And he sent little things, not regularly, but enough to keep her going through the term; cigarette cards if they were from the sets that she collected, a special sort of propelling pencil that was the craze one term, little bits and pieces that he wanted to share with her. Today it was packets of chewing gum.  
“You can’t keep that,” said Faith, looking with malicious pleasure at the chewing gum. “It’s not allowed in school. Can you pass it to me, please, Lois.”  
Lois sitting next to Janice, gave her a quick, regretful ‘not my fault’ smile, and picked up the little packets before Jan could place a protective hand over them. Lois passed the packs along the table to Faith.  
“Give it back!” said Jan, dismayed. “I’m allowed to keep it if I don’t use it.”  
“Well, what’s the point of that?” asked Faith, smugly pleased. Jan saw with sudden, sharp certainty that Faith was going to keep it for herself, and not even hand it in. Confiscated goods were meant to go in a cupboard in the office, where they could in theory be claimed back on the last day of term.  
“You can’t just take it!” she said, indignant.   
“I can and I am,” answered Faith. “Unless you’d like to ask one of the staff if you can keep it?”  
Jan, eleven, white with impotent fury, gazed at Faith, eighteen and complacent with all the rights of the system on her side.  
‘If looks could kill’ said Olive admiringly, later, to Jan, but of course looks couldn’t kill, and all the pleasure in her small gift was gone before she’d even had it.  
In truth she wasn’t all that bothered about the chewing gum. But she was bothered about Phil. That brand or that flavour was probably the big thing to have at his school, and he’d wanted to get it for her. Probably queued up at the village shop after school.   
Only one girl and one boy in school uniform were allowed in the village shop at a time, and the post-mistress enforced the rule fiercely. Jan had seen them lining up outside the shop last holiday (Kingscote having much longer holidays than the local Grammar). If an older and bigger boy came along they butted into the front of the queue, and the line made way for them with subdued mutters or sighs. But if anyone the same size tried to queue barge, fierce fights broke out.  
She’d wondered before what it was like for Phil at school. Of course, people took to Phil, much more than they ever did her, it seemed. Even their mother liked him best; something Jan had been instinctively aware of for some time, without jealousy even, because after all, it wasn’t as if that made life any easier for him. But going from his Prep school to the Grammar he was probably being got at for what they’d think of as a posh private school accent; even before they taunted him about his mum being ….. well, any of the words they used.  
His school trousers had ripped holes in the knees which she’d offered to patch for him last half-term. She’d felt a certain sense of pride; at least all those dull, dull sewing lessons had been worth it for something. But just so he didn’t think she actually liked doing it, she’d said, “Mum ought to do this for you.”  
“How can she?” he protested, and then, crossly for him, “If you show me how to do it, I’ll finish them.”  
“No. I’ll do it much better,” she told him, but her heart had sunk, because of course he was getting into fights. There was no way he’d ignore anything anyone ever said about Mum.

The staff at the top table were standing up now, saying grace, and Jan stared at her plate, not even pretending to mumble the words of the prayer. She didn‘t know what to do with her raw, furious sense of injustice, which was threatening to burst out. It was like when you didn’t fold up your clothes neatly and just rammed them in a drawer, and they all bulged and the drawer wouldn’t close till you slammed it. She could feel a hard, lumpy, angry wodge of rage inside her, bulky and pressing, and she stared away from everyone, slamming it down.  
Making her bed in silence, ignoring the chatter in the dormitory, she thought with relief that at least it was science first lesson. Science - predictable, testable, reliable - the litmus paper always did turn the colour it was supposed to - was her favourite subject, and the teacher her favourite teacher. There were an odd number of girls in IIA, and when they had to pair up to do experiments the teacher always chose Jan to be the one who worked on her own - which was just what she always desperately wanted to do, and she liked the teacher for knowing that. Once, going to the science room during break to hand in some forgotten homework, she’d found Miss Tennant drinking her coffee there alone, as if she’d rather not be bothered with all the people in the staffroom, so perhaps that was how she knew.  
And after science was maths with Miss Cromwell, which was alright too. She just had to get through form-time first, with Miss Redmond, their form tutor for the last year.

 

At first she wasn’t listening, but words began to filter though eventually.  
“With all the guests and visitors coming for Speech Day we want the school to look its absolute best, don’t we? As it’s Free Afternoon today, Miss Keith was hoping we could get up a working party of volunteers to help the gardener tidy up the drive - this fine weather‘s brought out all the weeds unfortunately! We thought the forms who aren’t involved in the play might like to make this their contribution to the day.”   
Miss Redmond gazed encouragingly at her form. “So, who’s going to offer first? Valerie?”  
“Yes, Miss Redmond,” said Val, reliably acquiescent. The rest of the form sat looking fixedly at their desks, or the walls, or anywhere where they thought Miss Redmond wouldn’t catch their eye.  
“We have quite a few possibles for next year’s teams in this form,” said Miss Redmond. “This is an opportunity for you all to demonstrate your sense of team spirit. Olive?”  
“Yes, Miss Redmond.”  
“Cathy?”  
Cathy, who hadn’t thought she was at all likely to be considered for any teams next year, looked surprised, pleased and dismayed all at once. “Yes, Miss Redmond!”  
“Janice?”  
“No,” said Jan.  
“Excuse me, Janice?”  
“No, Miss Redmond,” she said, quietly but quite clearly. The class held its breath. (“Talk about hearing a pin drop!” said Olive, retelling the story later in her dorm, sowing the seeds of a school legend.)  
Miss Redmond tilted her head like a curious terrier, looking at Jan. “Am I correct in assuming you are refusing to help?” Her voice was stagily astonished, but deceptively pleasant, as if ready to be amused at a silly misunderstanding.  
Jan looked back, met her eyes squarely. “You said it was volunteers. I’m not volunteering.”   
In the pause that followed, Lois’s hand went up. Miss Redmond turned to her, in obvious relief, thought Jan. She felt oddly in control, her thoughts quite cool and calm; as if the churning anger of earlier had found a rip-current deep and fast enough to carry it silently away.  
“Yes, Lois?”  
“I don’t mind doing it.”  
“Thank you, Lois. I’m glad to see some members of my form are able to demonstrate a sense of responsibility.”  
Miss Redmond picked a few other names, who all meekly said yes. The form darted curious glances at Jan, wondering collectively, was that it? Was Miss Redmond really just going to let her get away with it?  
Miss Redmond made a show of gathering up papers. “I believe you have to make your way to the Science Lab now, so I won’t keep you. - Janice, can you wait a moment please.”  
Ah, thought the form, almost audibly. Now she’s going to get it.  
As the others shuffled out, Jan stood waiting, clasping pencil case and science book to her chest, features naturally impassive.   
“Now Janice,” started Miss Redmond, as the last straggler left the room. “I realise you’re still one of the younger members of our community. You haven’t yet reached a level of maturity that will enable you to appreciate just what a privilege it is to be part of a school like ours.”  
Jan stared at her, fascinated. Did she really believe what she was saying?  
Miss Redmond continued. “You may think ‘school’ is just about learning facts and passing tests and proving how clever you are - and I don’t doubt you consider yourself very good at all that. But being at this school is about being part of a close-knit, caring society. We all have responsibilities towards each other. As I say, it’s quite a privilege to be a part of it. You especially should be aware of that privilege - you’re in a more fortunate position than many, as you may come to realise.”   
Jan had no idea what Miss Redmond was talking about. You’re just part of the system too, she thought, seeing Miss Redmond’s impotently irritated face in front of her.  
“Perhaps you should reflect over the holidays, Janice, on the ways in which you can participate fully in the life of the school? I shall look forward to you developing a - shall we say - less selfish attitude to the other members of our community.” Miss Redmond paused, expectantly. Then as Jan didn’t answer, she prompted, “Is there any way in which you’d like to respond, Janice?”  
“No, Miss Redmond.”  
Miss Redmond glared at her in shocked, silent fury. Eventually she said, in a tight, controlled voice, “ I will of course be having a very frank discussion with Miss Keith later. I hope you’ll come to see your attitude as having been very regrettable indeed.” She paused, then ladling on the sarcasm, said, “You’d better run along. I wouldn’t want to make you late for Science now.”

At the prize-giving two days later, Miss Keith announced that a Prosser was being awarded this year to Janice Scott, who was showing a particular talent for Science and Maths. No-one really explained to Jan what it meant, until she arrived home for the holiday.  
“It means you can stay at Kingscote,” her father told her, then added with a rare, quiet pride, “Miss Keith said they don’t usually give them out in the Second Year but you were the strongest candidate this year.”  
“When did she say all that?” asked Jan, disbelieving. Her father hadn’t come to the Speech Day.  
“The school sent a letter a few weeks ago, telling me about the Prosser and that they’d decided to award it to you, assuming I’d accept. Which I did of course. It’s been a considerable weight off my mind.”  
Jan couldn’t help wondering if Miss Keith had kicked herself for having already offered the Prosser to Dr Scott, once Miss Redmond had carried her sorry tale to her. She might well have changed her mind otherwise; and over the coming years Jan was to regularly suspect that Miss Keith regretted it very much indeed.   
Of course, Jan couldn’t have known how right her suspicions were. So much so, that in the future - Miss Keith decided - parents weren’t to be told that their daughter was being awarded the Prosser until the actual day of the Prize-Giving itself.


End file.
